A Queen of Her Own
by janemac24
Summary: It's the spring of 1944. Emma Swan has lost her husband in the war and is trying to raise a son on her meager wages from the munitions factory, when a turn of good fortune lands her in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League. Things are going well until she starts to develop strange feelings for one of the opposing players. Swan Queen AU.
1. A Real Ballplayer

_Based on prompt: SQ - Historical (WWII) - Rivals. "With America's entry into World War II, several major league baseball executives started a new professional league with women players in order to maintain baseball in the public eye while the majority of able men were away (from Wikipedia)" Regina and Emma are players in rival teams and Henry, Emma's traitor son, is the self-proclaimed #1 Evil Queen fan._

**Notes**: As you can see, I got a little carried away with this prompt. The story will likely end up with five to six chapters. Please be warned – although SQ is obviously endgame, other (past) pairings will be frequently mentioned, particularly Emma/Neal and Regina/Daniel.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Once Upon a Time or its characters. The All-American Girls Professional Baseball League is (was) real, but the teams and players in this story are fictionalized, and any resemblance to actual people/events - apart from well-known historical ones - is unintentional. I have done my best to research the sport and the time period, but I am not perfect, and I humbly apologize for any errors or inaccuracies.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1: A Real Ballplayer<strong>

_Batter up! Hear that call!_  
><em>The time has come for one and all<br>To play ball._

_We are the members of the All-American League  
>We come from cities near and far<br>We've got Canadians, Irishmen and Swedes,  
>We're all for one, we're one for all<br>We're all Americans!_

_Each girl stands, her head so proudly high,  
>Her motto 'Do or Die'<br>She's not the one to use or need an alibi._

_Our chaperones are not too soft,  
>They're not too tough,<br>Our managers are on the ball.  
>We've got a president who really knows his stuff,<br>We're all for one, we're one for all,  
>We're All-Americans!<em>

Henry collapses onto the sofa, gasping for breath, immediately after belting out the last note. Emma chuckles as she follows him into their small apartment, stopping to lean heavily against the door, even after she hears it click shut behind her. She'd worked both the night and morning shift at the factory before the weekly pick-up ball game in the Common, which had been slightly more intense than usual with so many recruits for the All-American Girls League in town. Henry had been over the moon at the announcement that Boston would soon be getting its own professional team, the Belles, at the start of the 1944 season.

"It's gonna be a gas, Ma," he'd exclaimed the entire walk home. "Maybe I'll get to see my first game at Fenway! Ma, you have to take me if the Chickadees come to Boston! I'll get to see the Evil Queen in person – maybe she'll even sign my ball!"

They don't have the money for that sort of thing, but she doesn't have the heart to tell him just yet. The Maine Chickadees – or rather, their star pitcher Regina Mills – have been the main thing getting Henry through the war and the loss of his father with his spirit intact. "Kind of a dumb name, though, isn't it?" she wonders aloud.

"What? The Chickadees or the Evil Queen?"

Emma shrugs. "Both, maybe."

"Chickadees are the Maine state bird," he informs her snootily. "We learned it at school. Did you know that Regina was born in Maine? She lived there her whole life – just two hours away from us! Her dad is from Puerto Rico, though! Did you know that? They almost didn't let her play because of that, but in the end they did. He taught her how to play baseball, and he had the same name as me! Well, not really, because he just changed it to Henry when he came to America. But sort of! And he played in the Negro Leagues here but just for one year, and then he retired! How nuts is that? They said he could have been the best player, but his wife made him quit! What a jerk! Why would he even marry someone like that? But his batting average was –"

"Yes, I read the same interview that you did," Emma interrupts before he can _truly_ get going. "And I know all of her father's stats – I used to have his card, actually."

That stops Henry dead in his tracks. "You _used to_?" he demands.

Emma looks down sheepishly. "I sold all of my baseball cards to help pay the rent and piece together some savings after I got the telegram about your dad," she admits. "It was over a year ago – before you got into baseball – and I didn't realize..."

"It's fine," he says quickly. He's matured a lot in the two years since Neal went away, and for that she's grateful. "It's probably more important to have a home than a bunch of crummy old cards."

"I'm glad you feel that way."

"Anyway, I think they call her the Evil Queen because she has a scary game-face and eats apples for good luck," Henry continues, babbling on as if there had never been an interruption. "I don't think she's really _evil_, though. She seems nice in all of her interviews."

"They do send all the players to charm school," Emma points out. Henry smirks.

"Well, anyway, who cares if she's nice or not? She's an ace pitcher. Did you know that she pitched _nine_ no-hitters last year? Nick at school says he heard on the radio that she's the best girl pitcher in the entire world! She even throws overhand like the boys – not underhand like in softball. Ava thinks that when the war ends and they restart boys' baseball, they'll ask her to play in the Majors! Wouldn't that be bonkers? What if she played for the Red Sox? She could be our neighbor!"

It would be highly unlikely for any Red Sox players to move into their solidly working class housing project, but Henry's still a bit too young to understand that. "That would be very bonkers," she agrees. "I don't know how I'd feel about living next door to an Evil Queen, though. I'd be nervous if she came over to borrow a cup of sugar – who knows what kind of pies she'd be making?"

"Good thing we're not Snow White," laughs Henry. "But I think I'm going to turn into Grumpy if we don't eat supper soon."

"We wouldn't want that." Shaking her head vigorously – Henry without regular meals is truly a demon – Emma opens the cupboard in search of something easy. "Sandwiches?" she suggests. "I think President Roosevelt is doing a fireside chat tonight. We wouldn't want to miss it."

"Okay," he says agreeably. "Peanut butter or Spam?"

"Peanut butter is faster." With expert dexterity, Emma whips up two sandwiches in almost record time. She spreads the peanut butter a little thinner on her own: Henry's growing quickly and needs all the protein he can get, but whatever bureaucrat is in charge of allocating rations doesn't seem to realize that. She checks the clock on the wall and grins. They have five minutes to eat before the radio program starts.

Henry has finished wolfing down his sandwich and Emma is about halfway through hers when they hear a knock at the door. "Are we expecting someone?" Henry asks, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Not that I know of," Emma replies with a shrug. For the first year that Neal was away, she lived in constant fear of knocks at the door, especially at odd hours. But once the telegram had come, she'd lost any reason to fear – as long as she can see with her own eyes that Henry's safe, that is. Setting her sandwich on the table, she quickly straightens her hair and turns to answer the door, but Henry is already peeking through the keyhole.

"It's Rupert Gold, Ma!" he stage-whispers, perhaps not as quietly as he'd intended.

Emma wrinkles her nose. "The Magic Popcorn guy?"

"Ma! He's the owner of the Chickadees! He's the one who's starting the Boston team, too! I can't believe you didn't know that!"

"What is the owner of the Maine Chickadees doing at our apartment?" she muses. "Did you enter a raffle to meet the Evil Queen or something?"

"Ma, answer the door!" Henry hisses, eyes wide and urgent. "He was at your game today! Maybe he –"

"Shh!" she commands, shooing him out of the way before she opens the door. "Good evening, Mr. Gold," she says nervously, beckoning him to enter.

"Miss Swan," the elderly man says, nodding his approval as he takes in her physique. "I see that you already know who I am."

"Well, my son just informed me," she says with an uneasy chuckle. Noting his limp and cane, she asks, "Would you like to sit down?"

He looks almost offended by the offer. "No, thank you. I'm hoping this will be a fairly quick conversation. My scout and I attended your baseball game today. You're quite a slugger."

What is she supposed to say to that? "Thank you, sir."

"As you've undoubtedly heard, the All-American Girls League is hoping to start a new team here in Boston. We're holding try-outs three days from now. I'd be most interested to see you there."

She's not sure whether the clunking sound she hears in her head is Henry's jaw hitting the floor or her own. Play professional baseball? That's –

"Ma, you have to do it!" Henry exclaims.

"I – I – Sir, you see, I work in the munitions factory. It's a full-time –"

"The starting salary for players is around seventy dollars a week," he says breezily.

_Seventy dollars?_ That's more than twice what she makes at the factory, even with overtime. They could move out of this rat-infested building, buy Henry new shoes and –

Henry.

"Sir, I – I have a son. I couldn't just go traveling all over the country playing baseball when I need to be looking after him. He's only ten years old!"

"I can take care of myself," Henry cuts in, arms crossed. "Or you could take me to the games."

Gold smirks. "You're hardly the first woman to find herself in this predicament," he informs her. "Arrangements have been made in the past, and they could be made again. If you end up making the team, that is."

"I don't know," she says, still hesitant. It would be a huge change. Their situation right now isn't great, but it's predictable. If she loses her job – if she and Henry can't eat, or they have to live out on the streets... Winter always comes sooner than they expect, with heating bills and –

"Maaaaa," Henry whines, "you have to _at least_ go to the try-out."

"Your boy has a point, Miss Swan," Gold wheedles. "You've got nothing to lose. Try-outs are on Sunday at the South End Grounds. If you can't take the day off work -"

"No, I don't work on Sundays." In a split second, she makes her decision. Just the thought of the look on Henry's face if she makes the team is enough to dispel all of her fears. "I'll be at the try-out."

"Excellent. I hope you and your boy have a lovely evening." With that, Gold takes his leave.

Henry waits until the popcorn tycoon is out the door before letting out the loudest whoop Emma has ever heard. "You're going to scare the neighbors!" she protests.

He dives into her arms, beaming, and exclaims, "Ma, you're going to be a real ballplayer!"

* * *

><p>Henry is still talking about baseball three hours later when Emma tucks him into bed. "I can come watch you in the try-out, right?" he asks for about the fiftieth time.<p>

"Of course," Emma promises. "But it's just practice. Why do you want to watch?"

He blushes and casts a furtive glance at the picture on his wall, an action-shot of Regina Mills pitching that he'd cut from an old copy of the Boston Globe, and Emma instantly understands. "The Evil Queen will be there, won't she?"

"All of the players from last season have to try out again," he grumbles. "I don't know why. It's not like anyone is going to be better than her."

Emma shrugs. "Maybe they're going to change up the teams?" she suggests. "I wouldn't worry too much about your beloved Queen, though. I don't think she's going anywhere."

"I know," says Henry, sighing deeply as he nestles his face more deeply into his pillow. "Do you think the try-out will be really busy, or will she have time to sign my ball?"

"I don't know, kid."

He's silent for a moment before murmuring, so softly she almost doesn't hear it. "I wish you hadn't sold the Henry Mills card. I would have asked her to sign that. I think she would have liked it."

"Yeah, she probably would have," Emma agrees. "But we have to eat, you know?"

"I know. It just would have been a nice thing. Do you think she misses her dad?"

Emma shrugs. "Probably." She'd heard of Henry Mills's death a few years ago, but hadn't thought much of it at the time, with America entering the war and everything else going on. "Probably just like you miss yours."

Nodding solemnly, Henry looks back up at the picture. "Maybe that's why she plays baseball – to remember him."

"Maybe."

"I really wish you hadn't sold that card," he says again.

"Yeah, me too." She really should have saved that one in particular for him, but she hadn't had the time or energy to consider it in her quest to make sure he stayed fed. "But I can tell you a great story to make up for it."

That gets his attention. "What story?"

"Did you know your father and I actually named you after Henry Mills?"

"No!" he exclaims, sitting straight up in bed. "How come you never told me?"

Emma gives him a small smile. "It's actually a little embarrassing," she admits, "but we had the hardest time thinking of a name for you. Then, the morning you were born, your father had been listening to the radio in the waiting room – I don't even remember what game it was, but the Brooklyn Eagles were playing – and he said the second he heard your first cry, Henry Mills scored the winning run. And we both thought Henry was a pretty sharp name. Wouldn't you agree?"

Henry grins and says, "I like that story. I can't believe you didn't tell it to me before."

"Well, you never asked about your name, and your fascination with baseball is kind of a recent thing. Now," she says, checking the clock on his wall, "does that qualify as your bedtime story, or do you need another one?"

"That one was pretty good," he allows. "Anyway, you have to leave for work in three hours, so you should probably get some sleep."

"Yeah, I probably should," Emma reluctantly agrees. "I have to rest up for my big try-out, right?"

Henry makes a noise that could best be described as a squeal and hugs his pillow to his chest. "You're going to be a ballplayer!" he says again, bouncing up and down in his bed. "I can't wait to tell Nick and Ava!"

"I haven't even made the team yet!" Emma protests, but she's smiling, too. It's been a while since either of them have had something to get excited about. And seventy dollars a week...

She has a hard time falling asleep that night, but when her alarm clock sounds three hours later, she's still full of energy even with so little rest.

_She's going to be a real ballplayer._

Even without the salary increase, it's a far more enticing prospect than making rivets for the rest of her life.

* * *

><p>Sunday dawns bright and early for Emma, who can't seem to stop her hands from fidgeting as she enters the ballpark, Henry at her heels. It's a much more impressive venue than any she's played at – or even <em>seen<em> – before, filled with more female ballplayers than she knew existed. At first glance, it seems like utter chaos: players warming up and tossing balls back and forth with little organization, but she quickly gets used to it.

"Why don't you go sit on those bleachers over there?" she suggests, but her slack-jawed son clearly has other matters on his mind. She follows his gaze over to the far end of the field, where a solitary woman is stretching, her face a picture of intensity.

"Ma, it's _her_," he whispers, eyes wide and awestruck. "Can I –"

"After," Emma whispers back. "I don't think she'd like to be disturbed right now." She thinks she finally understands how the "Evil Queen" moniker came about – that woman is _terrifying_. The thought those eyes staring her down from the pitcher's mound...

No, she can't think like that. This is just a game, an opportunity to give her son his best chance. It's not a matter of life and death.

"It looks like there's some other kids sitting over there," she tells him, pointing again at a spot on the bleachers overlooking first base. "I'll catch up with you after this is finished?"

Henry nods his assent and trots over to the group of spectators with Emma watching worriedly. Much like his mother, he's never been the most social – he's got a couple of friends at school, but he's been keeping to himself more and more since his father died. Still, these kids seem pretty friendly (they're obviously all interested in baseball), and she's relieved to see that he's actually talking to them. Then he sees him pointing to her and another boy pointing out someone who's probably his mother or much-older sister, given the resemblance, and she heaves a sigh of relief and turns back to the field.

"Hey, you need a warm-up buddy?" someone calls from behind her. Emma turns to face a tall brunette wearing red lipstick and impossibly short shorts. "Ruby Lucas," she says with a smile, holding her hand out to shake. "Want to toss around with me?"

During their warm-up together, Emma learns that Ruby is twenty-one and from a small town in Maine, where she'd been working at a diner with her grandmother until she'd run away to "see the world and make something of her life."

"If I don't make the league, I don't know what I'm going to do," Ruby confesses. "I can't go back home – Granny will kill me."

As far as Emma can tell, Ruby's one of the better players who'd shown up – and there are over a hundred of them. She's apparently from the same town as Regina Mills, though Ruby claims they don't know each other very well.

"She's a few years older," Ruby reports. "She'd left town by the time I started high school and didn't come back until her father died. She got engaged to someone she met in the city, I think, but they never married because her mother didn't approve. And then he got called up for the war, so...anyway, we shouldn't gossip."

"We shouldn't," Emma concurs. "My son is over the moon for that woman, though. I think he's her biggest fan."

"First crush?" Ruby teases, and Emma shudders.

"I hope not!" she exclaims, "He's only ten."

Ruby smirks and tosses a hard, fast one at Emma, which she barely catches thanks to that horrific distraction. "Sometimes boys start young," the younger woman cautions with a wolfish grin. Emma shakes her head and lobs the ball back as hard as she can, hoping to catch Ruby off-guard. She doesn't.

The try-out goes well, at least as far as Emma can tell. She's been playing baseball and softball since she'd learned it at her second orphanage, at age six, and she'd like to think she's a decent player. This try-out has only confirmed that. Save for one or two minor errors, she's playing some of the best ball she's ever played - with some of the most skilled female players in the country, and she's holding her own against them. She hears Henry and the other kids cheering from the sidelines when she hits a homer against one of the pitchers from Connecticut, and she starts to feel like she might be able to do this.

Her newfound confidence almost instantly dissipates, however, when she finds herself batting against none other than Regina Mills. If she'd thought the Evil Queen was intense during the warm-up, it's nothing compared to the ferocity in her gaze from the pitcher's mound. Her dark eyes seem to bore into Emma's very soul, sizing up her weaknesses before she almost carelessly fires off the fastest pitch Emma has ever seen. It whizzes past her chest before she even has time to react, let alone aim.

As does the next one.

And the next one.

"It's okay, Ma," Henry consoles her during a water break. "She struck everyone out."

The other kids, all wide-eyed, surround him, nodding vigorously. "At least you didn't cry," one girl solemnly tells her. "My Papa said that one time, a girl from one of the Chicago teams cried when she had to bat against the Evil Queen."

"That's just silly!" Henry scoffs. "They should have felt lucky they got to see her at all. I know I would."

His new gaggle of friends all voice their agreement, and Emma chuckles. "I'll keep that in mind," she says. "Now, wish me luck. I have to play shortstop."

The rest of the try-out seems to go fairly well, and Emma is pleasantly surprised but not shocked when she sees her name on the Boston Belles's roster at the end of the afternoon. Regina Mills, unsurprisingly, is back on the Chickadees for another season. Ruby's name is just above Emma's, along with a bunch of other women she hasn't met yet. She hopes they'll be decent people – she's always been a bit of a loner, but she'll have to learn to get along with her teammates if they'll be traveling across the country together.

She's always wanted to travel. In her youth, she'd dreamed of living a vagabond's life, moving from city to city with only a few dollars and the clothes on her back. Maybe with Neal, maybe without him – she wasn't picky. Then, of course, she and Neal had done what they did best and made bad decisions, and then Henry had come along and traveling became out of the question. Not that she regrets a moment with her son, of course, but being a wife and mother had never been in the cards for her.

Now, she can have everything at once: motherhood and adventure and financial stability. She's not quite sure what to make of it.

"You excited?" Ruby asks on the way out. She's practically vibrating with glee, though there's a certain wistfulness in her gaze as she stares a little too long at a payphone on the sidewalk, and Emma wonders if she's thinking about her Granny.

"I don't know if it's fully sunk in yet," Emma murmurs. Practices start in a week. She'll give her notice at the factory on Monday, and then Henry –

Where is Henry? He was just right behind her.

As though reading her thoughts, Ruby points out, "I think your kid is talking to the Evil Queen over there."

And there he is. He'd gotten shy at first and said he wasn't going to approach her, but he'd evidently changed his mind. There's no trace of self-consciousness now: he's grinning hugely and is plainly babbling on and on, but for her part, Mills appears to be interested in whatever he's saying. She's crouched down to his level and is staring attentively at him like his words are the only thing that's important to her.

_She's even intense when she's being friendly_, Emma thinks.

"I'll go see if I can't hurry them along," she mutters, jogging on tired legs to the first base line. Henry's eyes light up when he sees her approach.

"That's my Ma!" he exclaims. "She's going to be on the Boston team. You struck her out today."

"Great introduction," Emma says sarcastically, playfully ruffling his hair before holding out her hand to the Evil Queen. "Hi, I'm Emma Swan," she says, caught off-guard when the full force of Regina's piercing brown eyes is directed at her. How had Henry kept his cool?

"Regina. Your son was just telling me the story of his name."

Emma groans internally, but she forces a smile for Henry's sake. While she assumes that Regina will appreciate the sentiment, that story doesn't exactly paint her in the best light.

Not that she cares. She doesn't care what Regina Mills thinks of her – does she? She doesn't even know the woman.

"Your father was some ballplayer," she says, hoping that's the appropriate thing to say.

Regina seems to appreciate it, giving her a small smile as she replies, "He was. I'm glad to see he still has some fans."

There's an uncomfortable silence as the three of them stare at each other, and Emma wonders if she was supposed to make some sort of comment in return, but then Regina finally says, "Well, I have to catch a train back to Maine, and I'm sure you two have somewhere to be, so should I start signing that ball, or..."

"Right!" Henry exclaims, quickly pulling it out of his knapsack. "I'm going to put it on the bookshelf in my room, next to the picture of Ted Williams."

Regina raises her eyebrows and remarks, "I'll be in good company."

"Ted Williams is ace, but I've never met him," Henry says absentmindedly, bouncing up and down as he watches her sign his prized baseball. "You're the first real athlete I've ever met!"

"I don't know about that," Regina replies, barely concealing a sly smile. "Your mother is a real athlete now, too."

"I know, but –"

"Careful," Emma cautions. "I was going to buy you a celebratory dinner tonight, but if you say the wrong thing, I might reconsider."

"Steaks?" he asks hopefully.

"Maybe, if you finish all of your chores by six."

Henry's eyes widen. "By six?" he hollers. "I gotta go! Bye, Regina!"

"Henry, wait!" When the Evil Queen calls after him, Henry stops dead in his tracks, smiling radiantly, and Emma is surprised to see that _she_ is the one who suddenly looks shy. "There's, um... there's something I'd like to send you – if... if it's okay with your mother, that is. I would, um... need your address, if that's..."

"Sure!" he says brightly, putting her out of her misery. "It's okay – right, Ma?"

"Uh...yeah, of course. Definitely," Emma replies, and Henry immediately pulls a small scrap from one of his notebooks and scrawls their house number on it. Paper is expensive these days, but apparently the Evil Queen is worth sacrificing a few lines of his latest story.

"We could be pen pals!"

Regina smiles and says, "Yes, we could," before taking her leave. Henry spends their walk home sprinting in circles around Emma, downright giddy about the day's events.

"Ma, she signed my ball!" he squeals.

"Yes, she did."

"And she told me to call her Regina! And she's going to write to me! I can't even believe it! And I'm going to get to see her in person _all the time_ now. Since Maine is so close, you'll probably have to play the Chickadees a lot, and then she'll be there and... oh."

"Oh? What's oh?"

He shuffles to a stop, staring at his feet. "Just...your team will probably lose a lot, since she'll be striking you out."

"I'm sure we'll manage," Emma reassures him. "Maybe the relief pitcher will be terrible." Henry cackles, and Emma suddenly shouts, "I'll race you home." In spite of her exhaustion, she's feeling surprisingly light on her feet.

Maybe she's a little bit giddy, too.


	2. Batter Out

**Chapter 2: Batter Out**

"Hello, everyone! Welcome to the Boston Belles and the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League. My name is David Nolan, and I'll be your manager. You can call me David. As some of you may know, I played with the Red Sox for two seasons before an elbow injury forced me to retire early. This is my first coaching position, so I'm open to any input you may have."

"Asking for input? That man is either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid," Ruby whispers, and Emma nods worriedly as David flashes everyone a friendly smile that doesn't seem particularly managerial. She thinks she hears a few of the girls behind her let out irritatingly dreamy sighs.

"Stupid is more likely," another player chimes in – a round-faced woman named Mary Margaret who's a dead ringer for Walt Disney's Snow White (though she's a bit more cheeky than demure, and packs a powerful and devastatingly accurate swing). "Kind of a dreamboat, but since when is charm a qualification for coaching?"

"He was an ace fielder back when he played," hisses a round-faced blonde woman who Emma thinks is named Ashley. "I think he'll have a lot to teach us."

Mary Margaret shrugs, and David turns to their little group and asks, "Any questions?"

Caught, the players shake their heads, but David seems less irritated than he does confused.

"Now, if that's settled, your uniforms are finished. You'll need to try them on and make sure the names and numbers and sizes are all correct, and then you'll show me what you can do." He opens a large box and starts reading off names as he pulls out the uniforms and Emma exchanges a surprised glance with Mary Margaret.

"These are a little short," she mutters, holding hers up to her body. She'd seen pictures, of course, of last year's players wearing these dresses, but she hadn't actually considered it with reference to her own body.

"I don't think we can play ball in these," Mary Margaret protests, "not without a whole lot of indecent exposure, anyway."

Ariel, the red-head next to them, agrees. "This is nuts. Mr. Nolan," she calls, "how are we supposed to slide onto bases in these?"

Nolan shrugs, clearly out of his league. "I don't know," he responds miserably. "Don't you have some shorts or bloomers you can wear under them?"

"Why can't we just wear shorts or bloomers without a crummy dress on top?" Mary Margaret complains under her breath, scowling.

Ruby, who's already pulled her uniform on over her clothes, laughs as she models it for the rest of the Belles. "I like it," she says, grinning wolfishly at all of them.

"Well, you've got the legs for it," a short brunette, who is – amusingly, Emma thinks – actually named Belle, points out.

"Yeah, enjoy it while you can," Ashley sighs. "Once you have a baby, you're not going to look like that anymore."

"Nah, I'm going to save up my money from baseball and travel the world," Ruby says confidently."But if I do have a baby, hopefully I'll end up like Emma. She's still pretty slim, _and_ she got to keep the bosoms."

"Hey!" Emma exclaims, face burning scarlet. She's not in this to have her body critiqued like she's not even present. "Is this beauty school or baseball practice?"

"Sorry," Ruby quickly apologizes, "you do look good, though."

Twirling a lock of hair around her finger, Belle muses, "That's kind of the point, isn't it?" The whole team turns to stare at her. "The owners are in this to make money, you know. They want good ballplayers, but also pretty girls who'll look good on camera. That's why we're supposed to get makeovers at that beauty school next week."

Emma rolls her eyes at Mary Margaret's confounded expression. "Well, I don't mind wearing a crummy dress to play ball if I get seventy bucks a week for it," she declares, and most of the other players nod.

"Are you ladies ready to play ball?" David calls, rubbing his forehead and likely wondering if it's too late to get himself an easier gig.

* * *

><p>Her entire first week on the Belles, Emma routinely pinches herself to ensure she's not dreaming. She can't believe her good fortune: better pay, better hours, and not to mention, she gets to play baseball for a living. If someone had told her when she was younger that at age twenty-eight, she'd be tossing a ball around with her friends and getting good money for it, she'd never have believed it, but here she is.<p>

Playing with the best athletes in the country is tiring, of course, but her fatigue after a hard training session is nothing compared to the sheer exhaustion she felt after every double shift in the factory. Instead of hour after hour of brain-numbing monotony, she actually looks forward to going to "work" every day.

Every day, that is, until charm school.

"The thing about being professional athletes," David explains, hands trembling slightly, "is that you'll have to do a lot of interviews, especially if we win. Mr. Gold wants to be sure your...your...comportment," he finally spits out, after a harried glance at his note cards, "reflects well on the league. Some of you are closer to that standard than others, but you'll all have to attend Mrs. Tremaine's Charm School."

Mary Margaret raises her hand and asks, giggling, "Who's Mrs. Tremaine? Why aren't you teaching it, _Charming_?"

Ruby rolls her eyes. "She could lay off the flirting a little bit. I'm surprised he still hasn't caught on," she whispers to Emma, who snorts.

Loudly.

It's decidedly _not_ charming - which is, coincidentally, the first thing Mrs. Tremaine, an older woman with a perfectly set perm and too many pearls, says about her.

Not that charm school does rankings, but Emma can say with absolute certainty that she's in the bottom of her class in everything. Can't put on make-up, can't style her hair, can't walk in heels... Even country bumpkin Ruby, who "paints her face like a nightclub dancer" at least knows how to apply lipstick on her actual lips.

"Really, dear, did your mother never teach you anything about being a lady?" Mrs. Tremaine tuts when Emma sits incorrectly for about the fifth time.

"Uh...no, actually. They didn't really have time for this kind of thing at the orphanage,"

"Oh," the instructor replies, caught off-guard, _"oh."_ She makes a fine show of hiding her discomfort – clears her throat, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and forces a simpering smile. "Well, then it's a good thing we're teaching you now, while there's still time to get you a husband."

Emma rolls her eyes. "I had a husband already," she points out, though she neglects to mention the fact that it had been a shotgun affair and they'd both been kicked out of high school. "He died in the war."

Mrs. Tremaine doesn't say a word to her for the remainder of the lesson, but Emma catches her murmuring to one of her assistants, "What a _tragic_ past."

She plops onto a chair as loudly as possible and sits with her legs apart, just out of spite.

"Advantages of a traumatic childhood," she tells a pink-faced Mary Margaret, who looks deeply uncomfortable with the whole discussion.

Staring at her lap, the younger woman whispers, "My mother died when I was young, but I had a nanny who taught me everything. I still visit her sometimes; if you want, I could –"

"No!" Emma exclaims. And now everyone is staring. "It's not...no, I'm fine," she clarifies, lowering her voice. She's twenty-eight years old: her time for being mothered has come and gone. Thank god she ended up with a boy – she can't even imagine trying to teach a daughter how to get by in the world.

"Alright," Mary Margaret replies dubiously. "Johanna is wonderful, though, if you ever need someone."

It's then and there that Emma decides, despite some highly questionable flirting choices, she likes Mary Margaret Blanchard. She spends the rest of their classes trying to follow the younger woman's lead, up until the point that Mary Margaret runs out crying because Mrs. Tremaine asked her if she owned a hairbrush.

Teatime is the worst.

It's disgustingly weak tea, with no milk or sugar because of the war, that they have to sip slowly and only when they're told. It's plates full of biscuits they're not allowed to eat, only sit (legs crossed at the ankles, right over left) and stare at, because that's what "ladies" do.

Emma eats one anyway. It's rock-solid and flavorless, but she assumes it has some nutritional value, and she's unaccustomed to letting perfectly edible food go untouched. When Mrs. Tremaine and her assistants aren't looking, she stuffs a few in her pockets to take home to Henry, who's grown an inch in the last month and isn't particularly picky about his snacks.

She supposes that "ladies" can afford to peck at their food instead of stuffing themselves with everything in sight before someone bigger comes to take it away.

Actually, being a lady probably has its advantages, but for now, she'll take being a ballplayer.

* * *

><p>"Ma!" Henry screeches as he sprints up the stairs to their apartment. "Ma! Look what came in the mail!" After slamming the door shut, he dive-bombs Emma where she's sitting on the couch, massaging her right bicep after a tough training session, and shoves an envelope in her face. "Look, Ma! Look! It's from her!"<p>

Sure enough, it says _R. Mills_ in the upper left corner, followed by a Maine address. Emma takes a second to marvel at Regina's beautiful cursive – her own is chicken scratch – and wonder if she'd been the top student in her charm school class. Probably. She seems the type to be the top in everything she does.

"She wrote you a letter? Huh." Raising one eyebrow, Emma lifts the envelope up to the light, but she can't see through it – there's something small and thick blocking her view. "Isn't it usually the other way around? The fans write letters to the players?"

"I don't know!" Henry exclaims. "Give it back! I want to read it."

She expects him to tear the envelope open in all his eagerness, but instead he grabs a knife from the kitchen and slowly, carefully cuts the flap open, handling the paper as if it's made of glass. He gasps when he sees what's inside.

"Ma! It's a Henry Mills baseball card!"

"Great!" she says with as much enthusiasm as she can muster, given how exhausted she is. She's not particularly surprised – given the context of their conversation, she'd been unable to imagine many other reasons Regina Mills would have wanted to write to her son – but it still puts a lump in her throat that a perfect stranger had cared enough to make his day.

"And look, Ma! It's signed!" He thrusts the card at her and sure enough, the name _Henry Mills_ is scrawled across it: not nearly as neat as his daughter's penmanship, but still legible.

A small piece of floral-edged stationery that apparently escaped Henry's notice flutters to the floor, and Emma eyes it curiously. "Hey, kid, I think she wrote you a letter," she remarks.

Henry picks up the paper with only the tips of his fingers and opens it slowly, grin widening the longer he continues to read.

"What's the Evil Queen have to say for herself?" Emma asks. "Mind if I read it?"

"What? No, it's private!" Henry exclaims, clutching the note to his chest.

_Private letters with the Evil Queen?_ Emma's not quite sure how she feels about that. Not that she thinks there'd be anything _bad_ in the letters, but... well, he's only got her to keep him safe now.

"Why don't you go put that card somewhere special and finish up your homework while I get started on dinner?" she asks nonchalantly, choosing to let it go for now. "I was thinking mashed potatoes and spinach tonight so we can save the meat for something special on Sunday."

"Yes on mashed potatoes, no on spinach," he proclaims before turning toward his room.

"Not so fast! _At least_ three bites of spinach or you can't go to the movies with Grace tomorrow."

"Ma! I have to see _The Three Caballeros!_" he whines. "If I don't see it by Monday, everyone at school will tell me how it ends!"

"Then eat three bites of spinach. And get an A on your spelling test."

"Fine," Henry grumbles, shuffling off to his room like he's been severely put upon. Emma listens outside the door for a minute until she hears the scratch of his pencil and decides he doesn't need any further cajoling to study.

He's a good kid, she thinks as she sets a pot of water on the stove to boil. She's been a decent parent, despite having little guidance and no example to follow. At the very least, he won't end up dropping out of high school and becoming a father while he's still practically a child himself.

And she knows that, of course, but every time Henry gets another A or says something smart at the dinner table, it helps to chip away at the anxiety she'll probably never fully shake.

It's not until later, when Henry's sleeping (or, more likely, reading in his bed), that she notices Regina's letter on the coffee table. She hesitates for just a second before lifting it up, but Henry is concerned enough about his privacy that he'd have brought it to his room if he really didn't want her to read it, so she thinks she's safe.

_Dear Henry_, it begins, in the same beautiful, loopy script she'd seen on the envelope,

_I just hoped to let you know what a pleasure it was to meet you the other day. It's not often that I get a chance to talk to fans about my father, who has always been my inspiration. He taught me how to play ball when I was just a little girl (even younger than you!), and I think about him every single practice and game. Needless to say, this card is very special to me, but I know that you will take special care of it._

_Baseball was my father's lifelong passion, and he always said the year he played professionally was one of the best years of his life. Whatever your passion is, I hope that when you look at this card, you will remember that following your dreams can take a lot of hard work and courage, but it is essential to never stop believing in yourself._

_Best Regards,_

_Regina Mills_

_P.S. I look forward to seeing you when we play the Belles. Please tell your mother I wish her the best of luck_

_P.P.S. She'll need it._

Emma smirks and carefully re-folds the letter before tiptoeing to Henry's door and poking her head in – he's out cold. She sees the Henry Mills card propped up on the bookshelf with the photo of Ted Williams and Regina's ball, and she places the letter next to it. It's softer than she'd expected from the famed "Evil Queen," almost sentimental.

Well, maybe it was Henry who brought it out, she reflects. It wouldn't be the first time he's had that effect on someone.

And on that note, she gently kisses the kid on the forehead before turning out the light. "Goodnight, Henry," she whispers. "Sweet dreams."

* * *

><p><em>Take me out to the ball game,<em>_  
><em>_Take me out with the crowd;__  
><em>_Just buy me some__peanuts__and__Cracker Jack__,__  
><em>_I don't care if I never get back.__  
><em>_Let me root, root, root for the home team,__  
><em>_If they don't win, it's a shame.__  
><em>_For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,__  
><em>_At the old ball game._

The bus erupts in cheers at the end of Henry's rousing rendition of the Tin Pan Alley classic, and Emma leans back in her seat, grinning. She'd worried her teammates would resent having to cart her son around on road trips, but Henry's suddenly more popular than he's ever been in his life, and no one can stop fawning over Ashley's two kids, a baby and a toddler. Alexandra, who's just starting to walk, is chasing Henry up and down the aisle and generally entertaining the crowd.

She supposes it's nice to have the kids around, reminding everyone that at the end of the day, it's just a game. Lord only knows they need _something_ to take the edge off their nerves, and Ruby's suggestion of liquor had been soundly rejected by their manager.

"We're going up against the Evil Queen," she'd mumbled, shuddering and going slightly green. "Does anyone have any prayers, superstitions, _anything?"_

Now that the song is over, she's rubbing the wolf pendant around her neck like that'll somehow bring her luck.

"I don't think we need luck," Mary Margaret argues. "She's a pitcher, not an actual sorceress. _I_ say we can beat the Chickadees."

"I agree!" another player exclaims, a tall redhead named Zelena with great skills but little concept of strategy. "I don't think the Evil Queen is all she's cracked up to be. We can take her down."

Beside Emma, Henry twitches like he's going to say something, but she shushes him just in time. "Hey kid, it's okay if she's your favorite, but she's our opponent. They're just trying to get sharp for the game."

Henry rolls his eyes and whispers back, "Well, it's not nice to talk about taking her down."

"Kid, that's how sports work. You've gotta root for your own team if you want to win."

He considers for a moment before smirking at whatever little private joke he'd just thought up. "Ma, is it okay if I root for both teams?" he asks.

"Do whatever you want, but don't get mad if the Belles don't share your opinion of your beloved Regina. Her Majesty didn't write _us_ letters, you know."

"She wished you luck!"

Emma sighs. He's still a little young to completely get the concept of sarcasm, so she just says, "Yeah, kid. That was pretty swell of her."

_"Hennnn-wyyyyyy_," Alexandra whines. "Sing a song!"

"Well, kid, you've got your orders," Emma laughs, and Henry obligingly bounces the little girl on his knee while launching into "Joltin' Joe DiMaggio." Chuckling, the players sing along, and everyone seems to forget, for a time, that they're headed to their first professional ballgame, where certain defeat awaits them.

But the carefree illusion is shattered the second the bus pulls up to the stadium and the first thing Emma sees out the window is Regina Mills, munching on an apple and looking ready for battle. "Here goes nothing," Ruby mutters, and Emma is inclined to agree.

* * *

><p>The game is a blow-out; they'd expected as much from the get-go, and anyone who'd stepped off the bus harboring even a modicum of hope quickly loses it at the sight of Regina Mills's warm-up pitches and Albert Spencer's demeaning sneer from the opposing bench. They're done for.<p>

"I can't believe I have to shake hands with that man," Nolan mutters, wearing the closest thing to a scowl Emma has ever seen on his face.

"Sir?" Ashley asks worriedly, but he's already got his pleasant smile back on and his clipboard out, and they're ready for business.

"Go Regina!" Henry hollers from the stands, wearing the Chickadees colors even though he's sitting in the Belles's section. "Pitch a perfect game today!"

To everyone's shock – especially Emma's – Regina actually breaks from her solitary stretch routine for just long enough to blow him a kiss. It's a daytime game, but the glow from Henry's grin would be enough to light up the whole stadium, maybe even the whole state of Maine.

Maybe, as David optimistically points out later, the game isn't a _complete_ blow-out. After all, Ashley puts in a solid showing on the mound, and their fielding is adequate enough to keep the Chickadees to four runs. Mary Margaret, in particular, has several instrumental plays at first base, but the fact remains that Regina Mills grants Henry's exact wish.

She pitches a perfect game.

"You girls played well, but that pitcher is dynamite," Nolan consoles them after the game, but he looks as flabbergasted as his players. "I've gone up against some pitchers in the Majors who could throw faster, but she's _smart_."

"So what?" Mary Margaret challenges. "Are you saying we can never beat the Chickadees? Because more than half of our games are against them – they're the only other New England team."

"What? No." Now Nolan looks completely lost. "I certainly never said we should give up hope! We'll just have to do something differently. I haven't figured out what, though."

It's Emma who has the most success against the Evil Queen: she actually gets a piece of the ball about three times, though it always ends up just a hair over the foul line. She imagines it must be something about the woman's piercing gaze – the way she seems to stare straight into Emma's soul and right through her all at once – that disarms her so much she can barely swing a bat. It's hard to reconcile this persona, this cold-blooded competitor, with the woman who writes heartfelt notes about her father and blows kisses to excited little boys in the stands.

And Emma has to wonder why she's so determined to figure it out.

Almost as if she can sense Emma's thoughts, Regina smirks before throwing the third pitch.

"Strike three!" the umpire shouts as Emma's bat swishes through the air, just before the taunting _thwack_ of the ball hitting the catcher's glove. "Batter out!"

It's the last out of the game. The home crowd erupts in cheers, chanting their love for the Evil Queen, which Regina largely ignores. "You did good, Ma," Henry consoles her. "No one can beat Regina, though. She's the best."

She briefly questions whether Henry could benefit from a class at Mrs. Tremaine's Charm School before a two-hour ride with a bunch of crestfallen ballplayers. Maybe all of the peanuts he ate will put him to sleep.

"Regina!" she calls on her way out of the stadium, chasing after the woman's retreating form until she stops just before the bus. "I just wanted to say thanks," she says breathlessly when she finally catches up. It's more running than she'd done in nine whole innings. "Sending Henry that card – it meant a lot to him. More than you know. You really didn't have to do that."

"I know," Regina replies, dark eyes inscrutable, and Emma's even more on-edge. "I wanted to, It meant a lot to me, too."

"Right. Well, anyway, thank you. Again."

"You're very welcome." With a friendly nod, Regina turns back to the bus where the rest of the Chickadees are waiting, but she pauses just before stepping up, like a thought has just occurred to her. "You're starting your swing too early," she tells Emma. "My fastball's not Bob Feller's. _Patience_. Wait for the pitch to come to you."

Emma blinks, confused. "Thanks?" she responds hesitantly. "Are you... why would you give tips to your opponents?"

"Not_ all_ of my opponents," Regina says with a shrug. "You've got potential, and as much as I enjoy padding my statistics, I enjoy a good match even more."

It seems logical enough, but why is her heart doing back-flips? "Uh... okay. Thank you, I guess. Doesn't seem very Evil Queen-like, though," she jokes and immediately wants to smack herself.

Eyes sparkling, Regina demands, "What's a good villain without a worthy opponent?" and enters the bus without another word. Emma stands, watching Regina through the window as she makes her way to her seat. The corners of her lips are upturned, like she's having her own little private joke, and Emma feels something flutter deep down in her gut, lovely and unnerving all at once.

"Ma!" Henry calls from across the parking lot, poking his head through the bus window. "Hurry up! You're last on the bus!"

Emma hurries over to join her team, hoping the jog will clear her head, and joins Henry in the seats he's saved for them. "Were you talking to Regina?" he asks eagerly. "Isn't she nice?"

"I... I don't know," Emma replies, feeling a little faint. "She's definitely _something."_

_Something_ that remains on Emma's mind for the remainder of the trip back to Boston.

Something that's dancing before her eyes until the moment she closes them, in her bed that feels too hot and too cold at the same time.

It's not a restful slumber.


	3. The Telegram

**Note: **The italicized portions of this chapter are excerpts from the prayer "Let Our Hearts Be Stout," written by US President Franklin D. Roosevelt and originally broadcast on June 6, 1944 (aka D-Day).

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: The Telegram<strong>

Their first humiliating loss against the Chickadees is followed by a month of victories all across the nation, broken only by a single loss at home against the Rockford Peaches that's almost immediately avenged. They're doing well; they're doing so much better than expected.

"We've got the second best record in the league," Mary Margaret comments brightly during one training session at the end of May, though she pointedly neglects to mention that the first place team is still undefeated, and they're facing the Chickadees again soon, in a double-header at home the weekend of June tenth.

Their training has ramped up in preparation, and apart from caring for Henry, Emma is living and breathing baseball. It's sometimes difficult to remember that there's a whole world outside of the league: a world where the Belles and Chickadees matter less than the Allies and the Axis Powers.

She's embarrassed to admit that she sometimes forgets.

"Ma!" Henry hollers on Tuesday evening while Emma's in the midst of mashing turnips. "Ma, listen! Mr. FDR's on the radio! Something big just happened!"

Emma immediately drops what she's doing and rushes into the living room, wiping her hands on her apron, just in time to hear the beginning of the address.

_My Fellow Americans:_

_Last night, when I spoke with you about the fall of Rome, I knew at that moment that troops of the United States and our Allies were crossing the Channel in another and greater operation. It has come to pass with success thus far._

"That's good, right?" Henry whispers. Emma nods, speechless, and places her finger over her lips in the hope that he'll get the hint to listen quietly.

_And so, in this poignant hour, I ask you to join with me in prayer:_

_Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion, and our civilization, and to set free a suffering humanity._

_Lead them straight and true; give strength to their arms, stoutness to their hearts, steadfastness in their faith._

_They will need Thy blessings. Their road will be long and hard. For the enemy is strong. He may hurl back our forces. Success may not come with rushing speed, but we shall return again and again; and we know that by Thy grace, and by the righteousness of our cause, our sons will triumph._

"I hope they triumph soon," Henry muses. "Grace's papa's been gone a long time." Then his face pales, and he whispers, "Ma, what if his plane gets shot down?"

"Henry, it's really not useful to think that way," Emma sighs. "If his plane gets shot down, then we'll find out, okay? There's not much we can do to prevent it."

"But Grace's ma already died, so –"

"Henry, this is above our pay grade. We're not on the front lines. If something happens to her papa, Grace's grandparents will take good care of her. She's a strong girl and she's got a lot of friends to help her through it, like you."

_Some will never return. Embrace these, Father, and receive them, Thy heroic servants, into Thy kingdom._

_And for us at home - fathers, mothers, children, wives, sisters, and brothers of brave men overseas, whose thoughts and prayers are ever with them - help us, Almighty God, to rededicate ourselves in renewed faith in Thee in this hour of great sacrifice._

"See, you can pray for him," Emma whispers. She's not religious herself, and she certainly hadn't raised Henry to be, but she reasons that a bit of prayer can't hurt. At the very worst, it'll do nothing, which is about all they'd be doing anyway.

_Give us strength, too - strength in our daily tasks, to redouble the contributions we make in the physical and the material support of our armed forces._

_And let our hearts be stout, to wait out the long travail, to bear sorrows that may come, to impart our courage unto our sons wheresoever they may be._

"They probably need a lot of courage, right?" Henry asks. "The soldiers, I mean."

"Yeah, I'd imagine fighting in a war is pretty scary. Let's talk when this is over, alright?"

"Alright," he agrees.

_With Thy blessing, we shall prevail over the unholy forces of our enemy. Help us to conquer the apostles of greed and racial arrogances. Lead us to the saving of our country, and with our sister nations into a world unity that will spell a sure peace - a peace invulnerable to the schemings of unworthy men. And a peace that will let all of men live in freedom, reaping the just rewards of their honest toil._

_Thy will be done, Almighty God.__Amen._

"Amen," Henry repeats, eyes wide, with all the zeal and fervor of a boy never been to church a day in his life. Emma thinks she might have a moment of peace to process it all while he's engaged in prayer, but the questions start almost immediately. "Ma, do you think the Allies are going to win the war soon? I know Mr. FDR said it's gonna be a 'long travail,' but does that mean –"

"Henry," Emma interrupts, "I'm sorry. I'm not a war strategist. I have no idea what the president or General Eisenhower are planning. You could write to them and ask, but I don't think they'd have much to tell you."

"It would probably have lots of black tape on it anyway, like Dad's letters did. One time Grace got a letter and the only thing that wasn't blacked-out was 'Love, Papa.'"

"Well, the love's the most important part," Emma reasons. "Now do you want to keep listening to the news, or help me with dinner?"

"I'll help," he replies. "Do we have enough sugar to make cocoa?"

Emma considers a moment before slinging an arm over his shoulder and nodding. "I think we do, kid. This probably counts as a special occasion."

* * *

><p>It's mid-afternoon when the first game starts, and the bleachers are packed like Emma's never seen them. It seems as though the entire city came out for a Saturday afternoon ballgame; it reminds her of Fenway before the war.<p>

"Wow," Ruby comments, "it's almost like people are excited to see a girls' game."

"Regina Mills is here," Emma replies under her breath. Henry's been chattering on for a weeks about it, before D-Day started consuming all of his focus. Every other sentence was about the Evil Queen coming to Boston and his entire class going to watch and "Please, Ma, can't I talk to her after the game?" ("We'll see," she'd promised.)

Sure enough, when the players' names are announced, Mills draws the loudest response, split about fifty-fifty between cheers and angry mutterings. Emma has a sizeable cheering section of her own, led mostly by Henry's classmates, and of the other Belles have amassed somewhat of a following in their first six weeks of play, but it's nothing compared to the thunderous applause that follows "Number eighteen, Regina Mills!"

"She's almost like a celebrity," mutters Mary Margaret, shooting a glare out of the corner of her eye at the pitcher as she warms up on the mound. Mary Margaret has an odd competitive streak, Emma's noticed. She's bright and friendly and cheerful to a fault, but the Chickadees bring out her nasty side like none other. The fiercer the competition, the stronger her hatred. "A celebrity we're going to defeat."

Emma leads off for the Belles, anxiously kicking at the dirt by home plate as she waits for Regina to get ready. Gold had spoken to her before the game ("This is the biggest crowd we've had yet in Boston, Miss Swan. Starting the game off with a hit could be useful in sparking their interest.") and she's feeling the pressure more than she'd expected.

There's a sly twinkle in Mills' eye as she throws the first pitch, straight down the middle of Emma's strike zone. She swings and just barely misses, whiffing the air right under the ball as the crowd boos.

"Great pitch, Regina!" Henry hollers, and Emma rolls her eyes.

She gets a piece of the second pitch, barely, and sends it weakly over the wrong side of the foul line.

"You can do it, Emma!" Ruby calls from the dugout. "If anyone can get a hit off the Evil Queen, it's you."

She makes eye-contact with Regina and is surprised to see that the opposing pitcher almost looks disappointed in her. Then, to her disbelief, Regina mouths a word to her.

"P – pay...?" Emma stares for a moment, befuddled, until she finally remembers. _Patience._ She steps up to the plate with newfound determination, staring directly at Regina's elbow as she winds up and fires the ball over the plate again. This time, she waits just a half-second longer to swing, and she's stunned when she feels solid contact on the bat and hears the _crack_ as the ball goes flying into the outfield.

"It's a good hit!" Nolan yells. "Run, Emma!"

She runs. She makes it to second base before the Chickadees get their act together, since they're apparently inexperienced at fielding actual hits. Regina strikes Ruby and Mary Margaret out, but Zelena manages to hit a double that allows Emma to run home.

It's their first (and last) run of the game.

Nolan tries to console them after the three-one loss. "Hey, we scored a point against the Chickadees! That's progress."

"Nobody wants to be second best," Zelena snaps as she oils her glove.

Their manager sighs. "Well, Rome wasn't built in a day," he reminds them. "And Regina Mills is the Caesar of pitchers. We have time; the World Series isn't until the fall." On his way out of the locker room, her stops to pat Emma on the shoulder. "Hey, great job. That was some hit."

She shrugs, unwilling to divulge that the hit hadn't been her doing at all: that the very same pitcher who struck out every single one of her teammates had _helped_ her score a run.

She doesn't understand it.

"It was alright," she mumbles.

Misinterpreting her reticence, David just smiles and says, "We'll get 'em next time."

Later, in front of the Chickadees' bus, she demands, "Why did you do that?"

"Can you keep your voice down?" Regina hisses. "I did it because I wanted to."

"But _why?"_

"You're a good player," Regina says matter-of-factly. "You have so much potential. I'm not sure if your manager is doing a particularly good job bringing it out of you."

"But...but isn't that your goal?" stammers Emma. She's never had someone care about her "potential" before. Heck, she's never been told she even _had_ potential before.

"My goal is to be a professional ballplayer," Regina informs her in hushed tones, dragging her behind the bus so they won't be heard by her teammates or the gathering crowd of reporters, "at least until I have children. As Gold so frequently informs all of us, I can't be a professional ballplayer if the league doesn't exist, and the league won't exist without ticket revenue. Fans want adrenaline – close games."

"I'm pretty sure fans buy tickets to see _you_ because you're the best," Emma points out, recalling the packed stadium.

"That's different. No one's going to accept just an average Puerto Rican player in the 'All-American League;' I _need_ to be the best. It's like a spectacle for the fans. But you know what else makes a good spectacle? Rivalries."

"Rivalries?" Emma whispers. "You mean... you want us to be rivals?"

"I'm the best pitcher in New England, you're the best hitter, we're on opposing teams... it adds up."

Emma considers for a moment._ Ticket sales, newspaper articles, higher salary – the possibility to save up for Henry to go to college. _"I'm in," she declares. "So, should we stage a fight right here? Make a good story?"

Regina shakes her head. "Not the kind of rivalry that will make them look down on us. Rivals on the field – friends off of it. Like _ladies._"

"Sounds good," Emma replies, voice squeaking embarrassingly. She can't help but wonder at how someone could be so talented at baseball and so politically savvy at the same time. "You really know what you're doing."

"I've learned a thing or two over the years," Regina agrees.

Emma forces a smile, but there's still one thing needling at her that needs to be addressed. "So, um...if we're going to be friends off the field, we should probably spend time together, don't you think?"

_"Ladies, the bus is leaving in five!"_

_"Ma? Where are you?"_

"Here's an idea," Regina says quickly, "we're staying in Boston tonight because of the double-header. Let's have dinner: you, me, and Henry. Our chaperone won't have a problem with my visiting a woman and child."

"Ma? Ma! There you are!" Henry exclaims, finally catching sight of the pair. "What are you two talking about."

"Um..." What's wrong with her? Why does she feel like she's floating outside of her body? "Henry, how would you feel about eating dinner with Regina tonight?"

His jaw drops. "Are you kidding?"

"No, she's not," Regina laughs before telling them an address. "We have a friendly rivalry that we need to discuss. I'll see you at six-thirty?"

* * *

><p>Emma studies herself critically in the mirror, tugging at the dress that's just not sitting right no matter how much she adjusts it. It's the one dress she hadn't donated to the Ladies' Auxiliary, who were using the scraps to make quilts for the troops, and she hasn't worn it since the last time she'd gone dancing with Neal. She's put on a lot of muscle in the last five years, she reflects.<p>

More like the last three months, actually.

She's not sure why she cares so much about this. It's Regina Mills: they know each other from baseball. Regina has only ever seen her dirt-stained and sweaty. She doesn't need to show off her newfound hair and makeup skills.

"Ma, hurry up!" Henry hollers impatiently, barging into the bathroom without so much as a knock.

"Henry, you have to stop doing that! You're getting too old."

"What? I know you're wearing clothes. You've just been staring at your face for twenty minutes. It looks fine."

"Really? You think so?"

"Yeah," he says with a sigh, "I don't know why you curled your hair, though."

Emma sighs. "I goofed on that, but it's not like I can uncurl it now," she mutters, chewing her lower lip and wondering why she even bothered. Why does she even care what Regina thinks, anyway?

"It's fine," Henry quickly reassures her, "just different. What if Regina doesn't recognize you? Anyway, let's go! We're gonna be late."

"Okay, fine," Emma laughs, stumbling after Henry as he drags her toward the door. "Wait just a second." She races to the closet and pulls out the old bomber jacket Neal had always said was good luck. "You think this looks sharp?" she asks Henry.

Groaning loudly, he replies, "How should I know? I'm ten."

They take the trolley to the North End, where Regina is waiting for them in front of a cozy-looking Italian restaurant on Hanover Street. "I hope you don't mind," she says quietly. "This is the only Boston restaurant I know; it used to be my father's favorite."

"Well, in that case..."

Emma doesn't get a chance to finish whatever joke she was about to make – not that she's even fully aware of what's coming out of her mouth with Regina in front of them looking like a million bucks – because Henry is far too excited to stay silent for long. "It's the first restaurant I've ever been to!" he exclaims.

"Yeah, we don't get out much," Emma chuckles, staring sheepishly at her feet. "Couldn't afford to take the kid anywhere he might learn social skills."

"Not a problem," Regina immediately replies, laying one hand lightly on Emma's shoulder and the other on Henry's. "If this is your first time, then I'm glad to be a part of it."

Emma shivers, feeling a buzz of energy where Regina's hand is touching her, even through two layers of cloth. If Regina senses her discomfort, she doesn't mention it, instead leading them both inside. Regina seems like she's done all of this before, Emma notices; she's very cosmopolitan for someone from rural Maine. She's in a tight, black dress that's toeing the line between tasteful and sexy, and her clutch and shoes both match her bright red lips. She's got the eyes of every man in the room on her from the moment she enters, including several members of the jazz band, who break from their improvisation to whistle at her.

"Live jazz!" Henry exclaims. "This is swell! Do you know which band it is?"

"Nobody famous," Regina laughs. "This place isn't popular enough to get any of the big-name artists."

Henry doesn't seem to mind: his entire body is visibly shaking with excitement as they walk to their table.

"You sure know how to make an entrance," Emma remarks drily.

"They're looking at you, too, you know," Regina replies, sounding vaguely amused. "You've got a rebellious girl-next-door sort of charm."

Emma reaches up to feel her face. Is she _blushing?_ It's too dim in here for anyone to tell, but her cheeks certainly feel warm. Or maybe not – maybe it's just the candlelight. Regina's hand is still on her shoulder and it's preventing her from thinking straight. "Not like you, though," she mumbles. "You look sensational."

Regina shrugs as she sits down carefully and says, "I try to play up the image the league executives want me to cultivate. It's a delicate balance between high-born classy socialite and exotic Latin dancer."

"What do they care about your image?" Emma wonders aloud, trying to ignore the emptiness she feels without Regina's touch. "You're the best female player in the entire country."

Rolling her eyes, Regina explains, "Yes, but I believe Mr. Gold might prefer it if I was the best player in the country while also looking a bit more like you."

"I think you're the most beautiful person _ever_," Henry pipes up, and Emma's privately inclined to agree. "Even more beautiful than my Ma."

"Thank you, dear," Regina replies, eyes twinkling. "That's why you're my favorite."

"Are you married?" he suddenly asks, causing an alarmed Emma to spit out her water.

"She's a little old for you, kid."

"Not like that!" Henry exclaims furiously. "I was just wondering, because she has a ring." Regina pats his hand, obviously struggling to hold back laughter.

"I'm engaged," she tells him. "My fiancé's name is Daniel. He was a horse trainer before the war, but now he's in Europe."

"In the army?" Henry guesses, and Regina nods. "Was he in Normandy? Or Rome?"

"I... I really have no idea," Regina murmurs, clenching and unclenching her hands while staring fixedly at the diamond on her finger as it glitters in the candlelight. "I haven't heard from him for a few weeks."

"I'm sure he's fine," Emma says, and she shoots Henry a warning look. "Probably really busy. I bet they haven't had a lot of time to write, preparing for the invasions and all of that."

"Yeah," Henry adds eagerly, "and probably if he wrote about it, it would all get blacked out anyway. Right, ma?"

Emma nods. "Right. So, should we figure out what we're eating?"

Regina starts reading down the menu, pausing to recommend about every third dish, and they end up with more food than Emma's ever seen in one place. "My treat," Regina insists. "I haven't had friends to take out in a very long time."

"Aren't you friends with the girls on your team?" Henry asks, digging into the linguine carbonara.

"We get on well," Regina replies, in a clipped tone that lets Emma know the real answer is probably no. "Our manager doesn't want us to be too friendly outside of training, though: he thinks we might lose focus."

"Well, seems like that's going good for you," Emma says with a shrug. "You sure win enough."

"We work together very well, and it's nice to have friends outside the team, to get away from it all for a while." Henry swells with pride. "So, Henry, do you play baseball, too?" Regina asks, smoothly changing the subject.

"Sometimes at school, but I'm not any good at it," he says, face falling. "Mostly I just like to watch."

"Fans are very important, too!" Regina quickly reassures him. "Why, without fans, we wouldn't even have a league."

"I guess," he agrees reluctantly, "but it would be nice to be good at it."

"I'm sure you have something special you're good at," Regina protests.

"He does!" says Emma. "He won a prize for his writing last summer."

Regina's eyes immediately light up. "You're a writer? Now that's really special. Tell me what kinds of things you write." That bursts the dam. Henry spends the rest of dinner regaling Regina with summaries of all of his stories while their food grows cold, and Emma looks on with amusement that quickly morphs into some kind of indescribable admiration as she watches Regina interact with Henry. Something about the way she hangs onto his words makes it seem like they're the only two people in the room.

_She'll be a great mother_, Emma thinks, taking a large bite of room-temperature lasagna, _whenever her fiancé eventually gets back from the war. _She wonders if Regina will stay in the league once she's married. She wonders if they'll still be friends.

Then Henry's saying something to her about how Mary Margaret looks like Snow White and how he wants to write a story for Walt Disney about how Snow White is secretly an evil mastermind, and Emma pulls her mind back to the present.

* * *

><p>"Alright, kid, go sit with your friends," Emma says brightly, pointing Henry off in the direction of Ava, Nick, and Grace. "I'll see you after the game."<p>

"Bye Ma!" he calls, already halfway up the steps in his excitement. "Good luck! You'll probably need it."

Scowling, Emma sticks out her tongue at his retreating back and jogs to the dugout, where Ruby and Mary Margaret are awaiting her in high spirits. "Today is the day," Mary Margaret declares. "I can feel it."

"Don't say that! You'll jinx us," Ruby cautions, rubbing her wolf pendant for luck.

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes and says, "Our pitching and fielding is great, and we're getting better at hitting off the Evil Queen. Anyway, she's either going to be tired from pitching yesterday, or we're getting the relief pitcher, who's nowhere near as good."

"I wouldn't underestimate Kathryn Midas," Nolan calls from the baseline, where he'd been discussing something with the umpire. "We've never seen her pitch, and she was playing for one of the top amateur teams in New York before this."

Mary Margaret fires something back, and then Ruby makes some sort of conciliatory remark, but Emma doesn't quite catch it. Her eyes have zeroed in on a man in a painfully familiar forest-green uniform approaching the visiting team's bench.

He's carrying a thin envelope and wearing a solemn expression as he walks resolutely through the dugout and knocks at the locker room door, and she quickly averts her eyes, praying with all her might Henry didn't see it. He still has nightmares, although they've been growing less and less frequent, about the day the news about Neal had come from the War Department. They'd found her at his class play and instantaneously created a "worst day of school" that would likely become impossible to top.

"Dang," Nolan says under his breath, coming up behind her. He's obviously seen it, too, although Mary Margaret and Ruby seem blissfully unaware as they giggle their way into the locker room.

"Someone's about to have the worst day of her life," Emma mutters.

He sighs and nods. "We could be optimistic and assume it's just an injury," he suggests. "Maybe he got shot in the kneecap and gets to come home in two weeks with a cane."

Emma shakes her head and grumbles, "The power of positive thinking." It doesn't work; she already knows it doesn't.

"Do me a favor?" David asks. "Don't mention it to any of the other girls until after the game. I don't... well, you know, I don't want anyone losing their heads. We all know there's a war going on, but..."

"Yeah, we have to play. I get it."

"Thanks, Emma," he says gratefully, tossing her a spare catcher's helmet. "I want you behind the plate today; Ashley seems the most confident throwing to you."

Emma inclines her head in acknowledgement and follows the rest of the team into the locker room, wishing she could feel confident about anything.

* * *

><p>They score three runs in the first inning. Mary Margaret gets on base first, followed by Ruby, and then Zelena hits one out of the park before Regina Mills finally gets her act together and starts throwing strikes.<p>

By that time, the Belles are already up 3-0. "The Evil Queen's throwing grapefruits," Zelena marvels.

"Well, it's hard to pitch two days in a row," Ashley reasons. "Do they really not have anyone else?"

"No one anywhere near that caliber," mutters Emma, trying to shake the sinking feeling in her gut that something is very, very wrong, and it's not just the pitching. Regina's posture, her concentration – it's all off.

In the second inning, Emma and Ruby both score off Mills' oddly slow fast balls, and in the third, Regina gets pulled out and replaced by Kathryn Midas, whom Emma remembers as a decent pitcher from tryouts, but not even close to the Evil Queen on a good day. The crowd boos as Mills leaves the mound, and Emma thinks she sees (and hears) Spencer berating his star in the dugout. She has to turn away.

"Are we going to beat the Chickadees?" Mary Margaret asks excitedly.

"Don't count your chickadees before they're hatched," Nolan jokes, and not even Mary Margaret laughs. "But yes, I think we have hope. Emma, you're up."

Turning to the stands as she makes her way up to the plate, Emma catches a glimpse of Henry's crestfallen face and can't focus on anything anymore.

She's out in three pitches.

Kathryn Midas may not be the Evil Queen, but she's solid. She only gives up one more run in the remainder of the game, but the Belles' trajectory is already set. Aside from a double in the fifth inning, they shut down the Chickadees' offense, much to the hometown crowd's delight (and confusion). In the end, the Belles win six to two.

_"I can't believe it!"_ the announcer exclaims. _"For the first time, the Maine Chickadees have been defeated, and by none other than our own Boston Belles!"_

The crowd stomps and hollers and generally lets loose. Mary Margaret squeals and hugs everyone on the team, seeming to take twice as long as David. There's talk of celebration: a team party.

And Emma mumbles something about Henry needing to rest for school on Monday and disappears before anyone can ask why she isn't jumping for joy. She's not sure if she could even explain it herself.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe it," Henry's still complaining when they return to the apartment. "It's like that wasn't even Regina."<p>

Emma chuckles uneasily. "Thanks for your support, kid," she mutters. "Always nice when your son's happy about your victory."

"You know what I mean!" he exclaims, scowling. "I'm happy for you, but you didn't win because you were good, you won because the other team went bonkers."

"They all seemed a little off, didn't they?" she muses. "But when the War Department delivers a telegram to the locker room, you know things aren't going to be great."

And _that_ is something she never should have said, Emma immediately realizes when Henry stops dead in his tracks, gaping at her.

"You never said they delivered a telegram!" he hollers, eyes accusatory. "It was for Regina, wasn't it?"

"Whoa, kid, keep your voice down! The neighbors are probably trying to sleep."

"Was it for Regina?" he demands, voice softer but still just as distraught. "Was it about Daniel? Is that why she didn't hear from him for so long?"

Emma shrugs, clenching her fists as the weight of the gut feeling she'd tried to hide from herself comes crashing down on her all at once. _Of course_ the telegram was about Daniel. _Of course_ that's why Regina's pitches were so off. How to explain that to Henry, though, when there's no way for him to make it right? "Kid, I don't know," she mumbles. "She didn't say anything to me – not that she would have, but I still have no idea."

"The telegram was for Regina; I know it was!" Henry insists hysterically. "Her fiancé Daniel – I bet he died in the D-Day invasion. That's why she was throwing so bad, because she was sad!"

"We don't _know_ that the telegram was for Regina," argues Emma. "We're making assumptions based on the information we have, but we don't have much. And if it was Regina's fiancé, if she'd wanted us to know, she would have told us. It's really none of our business, you know."

Henry's face is going red, and he seems like he's trying to hold back tears when he insists, "Just because she didn't want to talk to us, doesn't mean she doesn't need us!"

"Look, kid," Emma sighs, "I know you're upset, and you're probably right to be, but there's nothing we can do right now, okay? We can't just go bang down the door of the Chickadees' hotel. If Regina doesn't want to talk, she doesn't want to talk. We need to respect her privacy."

"But we're her friends!" Henry protests, lower lip jutted out. "She doesn't have anyone else."

"She has her teammates and her manager and her mom," Emma says firmly. "It's late, and you have school tomorrow. Get some sleep."

He just gives her this look, like he knows she's lying, and stomps to his room, muttering to himself all the way. Emma grunts and sinks onto the couch, head in her hands, unsure why she feels the way she does – more devastated, even, than she was when she found out about Neal. Empathy, she tells herself: pain on behalf of a woman she's come to consider an odd sort of friend.

Friend? No, Regina's not her friend. Ruby and Mary Margaret are her friends. Regina is...

Regina is...

She's not sure what Regina is; she's not sure how she feels about her; all she knows is that the thought of Regina hurting in any way, of Regina dealing with agonizing grief and the loss of the only man she'd ever loved, ever trusted, of Regina's tears...

It's too much. One hand clutching her stomach, Emma races to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to spew out the remnants of her dinner while hot, angry tears stream down her cheeks.

Regina doesn't deserve this. Losing the love of your life without a chance to say goodbye – no one deserves this.

So wrapped up in her thoughts as she's washing her mouth out, Emma almost misses it over the sound over the sound of the faucet. Her head jerks up when she hears it, a tap as faint as it is unexpected at this hour: someone is at the door.


End file.
